Geek's Revenge Ch. 03

The first time I ever utilized the services of a prostitute I was in Amsterdam for a UNIX conference, back in the mid 90s. The megacorp I was contracted with had budget dollars to burn, and I couldn't resist the lure of legal weed and really good beer. I'd started smoking a little in college and was briefly a fan, but gave it up periodically when I changed firms. I eagerly anticipated the legendary "coffeeshops" in Amsterdam – not really realizing that prostitution was legal there.

After skipping the first afternoon and smoking way too much hash with a Brit named Rob, he grabbed my shoulder and steered me over to the Red Light district. While he was three years younger than me, and kind of annoying, he was an old hand at this. We stumbled along until I realized that we were walking past large open windows filled with beautiful young women.

"Are they underwear models?" I asked stupidly. I was really high.

"No, you stupid Yank, they're whores."

"They can't be!" I said, scandalized. I'd seen a prostitute getting busted once during my senior class trip to New York City. Before that I thought they were mythical. "They're, they're . . . young!"

"If you want to bag an old hag, that's two streets over," Rob said knowledgably. "Me, I like them young. And blonde," he added as we passed a golden-haired goddess that was preening in her window, looking more bored than alluring.

"So, let me get this straight," I said, looking around to see if anyone could overhear. "I can have sex with, say, that Valkyrie over there. And she will, no questions asked."

"If you have the brass," he said, nodding. I assumed he meant money.

"And she won't call the police?"

"No bloody way!"

I was speechless.

I had had six relationships of a sexual nature during my college year – four one-night stands and two reasonably long relationships. Being a geek wasn't the handicap it had been in high school. But I was still shy, unskilled, and no doubt a pretty lousy lay. I looked at that blonde girl in the window, noticed her name was Helga (She sure as hell didn't look like a Helga!) and that her price was . . . well, not as much as I'd just dropped on a ball of hash in a coffeehouse. I could fuck this super-model quality woman without cheesy lines, without getting her drunk, without worrying about what she might say in the morning, just a simple business transaction and back to the hotel . . .

It was like I was six years old and had awakened in Disneyland.

My recent trysts with Carla "Cuntmouth" Dawes, former high-school cheerleader and present junkie whore, had not only fired up my erotic imagination, but they had taken enough of the edge off of my personal id that I felt more relaxed and confident in other realms. Specifically, my social life improved a bit. The same evening Carla gave her rooftop performance I went to a rarity, these days: a website launch party.

Back in the 90s there was one of these every few days, caviar and champagne affairs that were designed to show off How Big We Are Going To Get to the press, the industry, and, most importantly, to potential investors. It was a glamorous, extravagant waste of venture capital, but you'd be shocked how often it paid off come IPO time. That was then.

Now these things are done with far less money, but with a bit more style. This one was in a rented hotel suite in the Downtown area, and while there was, technically, champagne, it was cheap and used mostly for Mimosas. I'd been invited not only because I still had money I might want to invest, but because several of the team members were fellow geeks I'd met on previous jobs. My presence lent a bit of gravitas, I knew, as I still enjoyed a very minor rep in the industry-watchers' circles for being one of the smart ones who got out of the bubble before it burst. I had also worked on the West Coast, Back In The Day, for some legendary firms, and that made me a minor celebrity among the hometown's homegrown techies.

I sipped my drink and mingled, looking at displays and charts with an absent eye while I scoped the crowd. The usual suspects – only a little older, a little pudgier, and a lot poorer than a few years ago. But not unhopeful. These were smart people, most of them, and while delivering pizzas at night while you hack code for free in hopes a real job someday seems a little desperate to an outsider, these guys were smart enough to know that the tech sector is continuously evolving, and the next boom would happen . . . eventually.

My eye lit upon one figure almost immediately, and I began to work my way through the crowd towards her. The coincidence, the irony, was just too great to pass up. Beverly Li was a youngish looking Asian woman who had started her professional life hacking Unix code, and was smart enough to know that while tech was hot, the real money makers were the suits, not the programmers. She worked the educational fund angle, taking free classes from whatever corporation she was working for at the time. She ended up with a degree in business, and would have been fabulously wealthy had she not gotten involved in some tricky litigation with several of her partners and a large multinational firm.

Bev always landed on top, though. I think it was from sheer force of will. Asian women are stereotypically demure and submissive, but apparently Bev never read the manual. She was an imposing woman, one of those who get called "bitch" behind her back at every job she'd ever been at. She worked out hard, turning her once-chubby body into a block of concrete. She was almost completely tactless in social situations, due, she claimed, to coming from a mixed Korean/Taiwanese background, which, she insisted, made her a natural social pariah in Asian society, so why the fuck bother with tact with stupid white people? At 25 she had already been married and divorced twice, and been in at least three lesbian relationships that I was aware of. While her manner kind of scared me she was really funny in a biting, acidic sort of way, and she seemed to like me.

She also had gone to my High School. We didn't get to be friends until years after, but she was one of the flat-chested little nerd girls who hung out in the library and got harassed by the Bitch Squad, as Carla's group had been unaffectionately known. If there was one woman on Earth who would appreciate hearing about Carla the Crack Whore, it was Bev.

I hadn't seen her in almost a year, and after the requisite drunken hug and slobbery cheek-kiss, we grabbed a couch and caught up on old times.

"Cooper! Coop! God, it's been ages! You still retired?"

"Yep. What are you doing these days?"

"I'm a consultant," she said with a wry grin. That usually means your unemployment has run out.

"What kind of consultant?"

"What kind do you need?"

We laughed harder than we should have. "Actually, I'm doing pretty decent right now – two new clients this week. Including these guys. So I might just get paid someday." She filled me in on her legal and sexual escapades, both of which were entertaining. I, in turn, talked about my real estate purchases and passed along a stock tip I was putting a little something on myself. Then I casually steered the conversation back to High School, setting up before dropping the bomb.

"Oh," I started casually, "I ran into someone from the Good Ole Days a few weeks ago. Perhaps you remember her: Carla Dawes?"

The shift in Bev's face was subtle, but delicious. The amount of built up anger, pain and resentment in her eyes told me that she still held feelings for Carla – none of them good.

"Oh, really?" she said, equally as casual. She sipped her drink for a moment and I swear I could hear her brain burning with resentment. "What is she up to these days? Wifey-mommy, real-estate bimbo or bridal boutique owner?"

"Crack whore, actually," I said, sipping my own drink.

"Guffaw. No, really, what's the bitch up to?"

"I'm serious, she's a crack whore. I saw here in the ghetto a few weeks back."

"A fo' real, doh, ho? Out-fucking-standing. That's delicious irony with a side of ranch, now, isn't it? I thought the bitch would be married with brats by now, working on her second husband. Did you talk to her?"

"I paid her to suck my dick."

Bev's mouth was on the floor, the most reactive I'd ever seen her. "You are shitting me."

"Nope. Twenty bucks, in the front of my car, and she swallowed."

"Damn, Coop, didn't think you had it in you."

"How could I pass up an opportunity like that, I ask you? Former cheerleader princess, sucking my dick for rock in my $85,000.00 car? That's got to be one of my all-time life experiences."

"I hear you. Damn, I wish I could see that. I may have to cruise over there some time, see if she likes tacos. What I wouldn't give to have that bitch's foul tongue on my clit."

"Well, let's begin negotiations."

"What do you—oh, damn, you're serious? You can make it happen?"

"If the price is right."

"Coop, you intrigue me. Ok, it can't be money that you want, so what? My ass?"

"That would do for a start. I think I'd want a blow-job, too."

"You have got to be kidding." She was speaking from that place of insecurity that every American woman has, the idea that a man could not find them attractive if they didn't look like a supermodel. "Coop, I hate to say it, but you could write your own ticket in this room. Just because of who you are. If nerd babes or bimbos are what get you going, I know of five here right now that would suck you off in the lobby restroom within the hour."

"Random pussy I can find on my own, thank you – although I admit I'm intrigued. But, no, I want a piece of Asian ass and a little head, too. Yours, specifically. Just between friends, a little casual business sex, no baggage."

"Shit, why me? I'm such a bitch. You're always so nice to everyone."

"Let's just say I'll be fulfilling one of my fantasies while helping you with one of yours. I've always had a thing for nerdy girls, and Asian girls, and I've always wanted to dominate a complete bitch. With you, I get all three at once. But this deal ends soon. So what do you say?"

"Make it happen. I'll give you four hours to do with me what you will, no holds barred. Sound fair?"

"One condition: I get to watch."

"I'd never guess you were this kinky in a billion years. Done. When can you give up the body?"

"Probably within the hour. Let me call her cell. You make your apologies to our hosts, and we'll get a hotel room."

"No problem. And they are my clients, not my host. How much can I say you are interested in investing?"

"Tell 'em I could go as high as fifty grand, with some encouragement. And give them plenty of ideas about how you plan on encouraging me. In fact, I'll do seventy five, but it's always good to appear to exceed expectations when you are a consultant."

"I love you and want to bear your children. The target on this round is a quarter mill, so this would be big for me. I hope so, anyway – I've given up my commission in return for stock options and maybe a job."

"Good call. 'Cause I think I know a company that will be happy to acquire this technology in about nine months, and will pay well for it. Get all the stock you can."

"Let me get my purse."

***

Carla answered her phone on the third ring, and was very pleased to hear from me so soon. I was becoming a regular, something every whore wants in her life. I asked her to meet me at a mid-range hotel Downtown in an hour, said I had a friend who wanted in, too. She gave me a quote of $150.00 for an hour with the two of us, or $500.00 for a whole night, and we pay for the room. I advised her that my friend was a little kinky, and she didn't hesitate – she just upped the price two hundred dollars and advised me that her pimp would come after us if she was damaged. I told her I understood, and we were off.

Bev was nervous as hell, and she insisted on stopping at the lobby bar and getting two double shots of bourbon before we checked in (as husband and wife – I got a kick out of that and even called her "dear" at the desk). By the time we were in the room she had chilled a bit, but she was still anxiously anticipating Carla's arrival. I used the time to probe her a little about her past. I found out that she had become sexually active in High School, the usual teen-aged fumbling, but with boys and girls. She had never really made up her mind, though, and continued her bi-sexuality in college, through two marriages, and well into her work life. She casually admitted to sleeping with clients to seal a deal, taking pride in her business acumen. She was a callous bitch, I'll give her that.

We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and as we arranged Bev went into the bathroom to "prepare". I welcomed Carla at the door, and noted that she was freshly showered (her hair was still wet) and recently cranked up. Her eyes had that cocaine-sodden "anything goes" look to them, and it was clear she was ready to make some money. She was dressed in slightly clubby casual clothes, not whorish in the traditional sense but with the knowledge of what she did for a living it made her look in my mind like a complete slut.

"Where is he?" she asked after she accepted a drink from the honor bar and saw the cash on the table. "And just how long will you be needing me?"

"Tell your pimp all night. $700.00, plus tip, if it's worthy."

"Fine, let me call him. You can get undressed, if you want."

"I'll just watch for a while."

Bev came out just as she snapped her phone shut. Carla did a double-take. "A chick? You didn't tell—hey, no problem. I'm full service. And she's very cute. Your girlfriend?"

She did, too. She pulled out her Palm, plugged in an attachment from her oversized purse, and tuned it in on the room's stereo. It was a song from my junior year in high school, very raunchy, with a mean power cords and swinging falsetto voices. Carla seemed to get into it, and before long she was doing a seductive, if a little unsteady, strip next to the bed. Bev looked on with unabashed hunger, a gleam in her eye that made me almost pity Carla. She sat there with her drink in the uncomfortable hotel chair and leered evilly as Carla's clothes were seductively removed. She was wearing a daring red bra-and-panties set—thong, of course – and I have to admit, she knew how to move like a stripper.

But watching Bev was almost as much fun as watching Carla. Bev's knees hung wider and wider apart as Carla exposed more flesh, and her eyes got a dreamy look. At various points she would stop the whore and direct her a little. Her knee would vibrate up and down like a dog humping empty air. This girl was primed.

When Carla's panties hit the floor, Bev nearly leapt on the woman, pushing her back on the bed and straddling her head with her thighs, lifting herlittle black leather miniskirt only slightly to clear her forehead. She shifted her ass a little as she settled her pussy over Carla's mouth, and sighed electrically.

I enjoyed watching the queening of the whore by the bitch. For nearly forty-five minutes we didn't do anything but that – Carla licked, Bev came, and I watched. At one point, between orgasms, Bev asked me to light her a cigarette. She didn't stop Carla, just wanted a smoke. We even talked a little business while she was coming her brains out. Carla may not have been a lesbian, but it was obvious that her tongue was no stranger to cunt. Bev must have came twenty times.

Finally, she decided on a break and reluctantly dismounted Carla's face. Carla had a kind of dazed look in her eyes, and her face was soaked with Bev's secretions. I know a photo-op when I see one, so I snatched up Bev's PDA (A really sharp Zire 72) and took a photo of the whore with her face and makeup smeared.

"Nothing, honey. Look, I've got raging wood here. Be a pet and suck me off while Bev recovers." Shrugging, Carla crawled seductively (if a bit shakily) over to my chair and released my dick. In moments it was in her mouth – which was different from the last two times. I guess munching muff for nearly an hour will cause some swelling. It was soft, and her lips were already tired, but Carla was a pro, and in moments her nose was pressed against my pubes. I could smell Bev's juice on her face, and I thought briefly about my deal with the Asian bitch. I couldn't wait to sample her myself.

I let Carla blow me for about twenty minutes before I finally came in her mouth. Bev took a couple of snaps with her Zire while she did it, specializing in close ups. It was very pleasant.

"Now, I'm gonna make the bitch cum," she said after finishing her drink.

"How do you want me?" Cara asked, clueless.

"Doggie style, facing the window. Ass in the air. Move!" Bev barked.

Carla complied, and in moments Bev had pulled an eight inch vibrator out of her handbag. I raised my eyebrow at her, and she caught my eye.

"It comes in handy," she explained. "You'd be surprised. Try living my life for a week, and you wouldn't leave your doorstep without one."

It was my turn to shrug.

Bev spent the next half hour using the toy with a master conductor's skill with a baton. Carla was a whore, and no doubt could fake an orgasm better than she could read a map, but Bev was not going to let her fake it. She made her cum, and cum, and cum, to the point where she was shaking. Her clit had taken a beating, and she was getting friction burns on her nipples from writhing on the bedspread. Bev was in heaven, using her former tormentor's pussy like a company rental car. I snapped a few more photos for posterity.

Finally, Cuntmouth Carla could take no more, and asked for quarter. "Stop, please, it's going to fall off!"

"Hardly. That was nothing compared to the after party at your senior prom." Bev flipped her over on her back and re-mounted the throne. There was a tone in her voice that spoke of madness, and Carla didn't argue – she just started licking. "That was my Sophomore year," she confided in me.

I took over the toy at that point, and spent some leisure time working over Carla's cunt and biting her nipples – hard. That made her thrash, which Bev appreciated. She liked it so much, it seems, that she altered her angle slightly and presented her pink Asian asshole to her whore for worship. She also turned around so that she could watch me work.

While I was already sporting another erection – who wouldn't, with that going on? – I didn't want to run and gun just now. Instead, while I was tormenting Carla's engorged clit, I started looking for stray hairs, and ruthlessly plucking them. It made her jump, which made Bev gasp. I didn't stop when I got to her sensitive bikini area – if anything, I was more diligent.

Finally, Carla forced Bev off of her face. "That's it! No more, look. I need a break. Just a minute or two, but I need a drink and I need to pee. So unless you are into that . . ."

"Go pee," I ordered. "You have five minutes."

"Thanks," she said, sullenly, and left.

While she was in the bathroom, Bev poured yet another drink and smiled broadly. "I've come more tonight than in the last year. Thanks."